


Alike in Dignity

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Revels, AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 04:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5571913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the only clean cop in a crooked city came knocking at crime boss Miles Matheson's door, he had to hear him out. Even if it was the day his niece was getting married and he had a very long history with the cop. Shame they'd never been any good at talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alike in Dignity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penndragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penndragon/gifts).



> Twelve Days of Revels Prompt - Crime Family.  
> Also, thanks to Penndragon who helped me brainstorm ideas :D

The desk was an antique, over a hundred years old and shipped over from estate in Ireland with a second son seeking his fortune. All he’d found was debt, and the Mathesons had taken his history in payment. Family legend had it that’s where their great-grandfather had met their Irish great-grandmother too.

Sometimes Miles wanted to take an ax to the fucking thing. He never did though. Just like he’d always wanted to get away from his family, yet he never did.

He poured a glass of whiskey over half melted ice and slouched back in his chair, waiting for the booze to anaesthetize him enough to put a good face on it. There was a speech to give after all, palms to press, smiles to trade.

Half the desk - the taken in trade history of another family - was covered with receipts and invoices for caterers, florists and - of all fucking things - an ice swan. The other half was stacked with crooked books, protection racket accounts, and letters from scumbags.

The rest of the world had gone digital. Crooks still liked to have something they could burn on receipt.

Miles tilted his head back against the leather headrest and closed his eyes, rolling the cold glass against his cheek. This had been his Dad’s life - how the fuck had Miles ended up living it?

Someone hammered the door.

‘Boss?’

Miles opened his eyes, squinted at the ceiling, and downed the last of the whiskey. He crunched the ice shards between his teeth and pushed himself up out of the chair. Stalking over to the door he pulled it open, ‘If this is about the fucking swan-’ he growled, and then the words caught behind his teeth. 

Jim gave him a bloody-toothed grin and shook the roughed-up man he had by the scruff.

‘See, I’d heard he was more of Gloucester Canary,’ he said. ‘Least, the cops he got fired say he’s got a lovely singing voice.’

Bass sucked blood from his lower lip and spat on the floor. ‘That lot were so dirty, I’m surprised they could hear anything through the shit in their ears.’

Jim sniggered. A dirty cop was a useful cop, it didn’t mean you liked them. ‘Either way, boss, not a swan.’

Shrugging out from under Jim’s grip, Bass wiped his sleeve over his mouth. A smear of blood stained the sleeve of the old hoodie - that was the either the same one Bass had owned back in St Louis or the same brand.

‘We need to talk, Miles,’ he said. Blue eyes cut sideways to Jim. ‘In private.’

Bad idea. Fuck it. ‘All right,’ Miles said, stepping back. He jerked his head in invitation. ‘You got fifteen minutes. I’ve a party to get to.’

Jim raised his eyebrows in surprised disapproval, but Miles ignored him. He stepped back to let Bass into the office, swinging the door shut behind him to close Jim’s scowling face out. The room suddenly felt too small and stuffy hot, sweat itching under the starched collar of his dress shirt.

He’d seen Bass since he got back to town, but it had been as Mr Matheson and DI Monroe. Not Bass and Miles, not alone in a room. They hadn’t had that for five years.

‘What do you want, Monroe,’ Miles growled. ‘This isn’t the day to stir up shit.’

Bass smirked with a split lip. ‘I come to y our house on the day your…”niece”,’ he hooked his fingers around the word mockingly. Even if Jim was listening at the door, he’d not get the jab. It still made Miles twitch, old guilt rising up in his throat like sour water. ‘..is to be married to ask a favour.’

‘You want someone murdered?’ Miles asked, snorting. ‘You’re too much of a straight arrow for that.’

He grabbed a glass from the sideboard and tilted it towards Bass. After a brief hesitation, the other man nodded. Miles poured him a glass of whiskey and handed it over. He leaned against the desk, the old ridge of it digging into his hips, and waited for Bass to drink. Then he returned the painful favour of dredging up old guilt.

‘Emma’s funeral went well,’ he said. ‘Shame you missed it.’

Bass was silent, then took another drink. He touched his side, thumb tracing the rise of his hipbone. Miles remembered the kick of the gun and Bass going down with a familiar mix of satisfaction and horror. He chased it with a gulp of whiskey. ‘I was still in hospital, apparently they don’t give you day passes for ex-girlfriends.’

‘She was never technically your girlfriend,’ Miles pointed out. The bitterness kind of surprised him. ‘She was mine.’

‘She had my kid.’

It was the first time they’d actually dragged that battered old skeleton out of the closet. Years of them both knowing, and never admitting it to each other. Miles grimaced into his drink,maybe they could talk it out and rebuild their friendship.

Or - and this is what Miles was leaning towards - he could punch the cheating bastard in the face.

He cracked his knuckles off Bass’ jaw, pain jarring into his wrist on impact. Bass staggered, caught himself, and tackled Miles. They hit the ground in a swearing tangle of punches and well-aimed knees. Miles managed to get an elbow into Bass’ eye, and Bass hammered a fist into his kidney until it felt full of ground glass. In the morning he’d be pissing blood.

It was vicious, it was nasty, and it wasn't real. A real fight would have popped joints and crushed throats - this was about hurting each other, not about winning. A good thing too, since neither of them really managed that.

The fight petered out of them, leaving Miles sprawled on top of Bass as they both panted in each other's breath. Miles kissed him, clenching his hand in police issue short curls and scraping his mouth roughly over full, blood-salted lips.

There were roughly 120 ‘ifs’ that could have changed everything. If the Monroe’s hadn't been killed in that gang war, if Miles had just let him kill the bastards who did it, if they’d both run far enough that Rachel hadn't been able to find them when the shit hit the fan with Ben.

Not this though. Bass under him, swearing into Miles, mouth and ripping his black suit pants off him - nothing changed that. It was quick and messy, both of them knowing that someone was going to come knocking at the door and they’d have to go back to being enemies. Hard mouthed kisses and rough hands dragging at their cocks. Sweat and salt, and Miles’ thumb milking the long vein in the underside of Bass’ cock.

It made Bass groan, chewing the sound off behind bloody teeth, and his fingers tighten around Miles’ cock until it hit that queasy line of pleasure and pain. It made Miles’ balls clench tight to his body and twisted blackly up his spine.

Neither of them had ever been any fucking good at being people, but they were good at this.

Miles shoved Bass t-shirt up, exposing the hard lines of his stomach and the raw starburst of fresh healed scar on his side. He pressed his palm over it, as if he was trying to stem the flow of blood he remembered.

Flags of red stained Bass’ cheeks and his lips were raw and chafed. He still sneered up at Miles like he wasn't getting fucked in the floor of a crime lord’s office. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that you didn't mean to?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘I didn’t,’ Miles said. He met Bass gaze steadily. ‘I meant to kill you.’

Bass grinned, sharp as a knife, and dragged Miles down for a kiss. Blunt nails dug into Miles’ shoulder, pressing down on the muscle, and Bass came between his fingers. He panted into the crook of Miles’ neck for a second, fist clenched under Miles’ ear.

Instead of finishing the job with his hand, Bass shoved Miles over onto his back. Fuck. Miles clenched his jaw and dug his fists into the thick nap of the rug, as Bass squirmed down to wrap that clever, bloody mouth around Miles’ cock.

It was wet and tight, all tongue and suction. Gun-callused fingers cupped Miles’ balls and squeezed, tongue roughly pushing the hard length of him against the roof of Bass’ mouth. The most influential people in the Chicago underworld were outside, waiting for Miles to give a speech about taking over the city. Here he was getting a blow job from the only cop in the city  _ not _ on his payroll.

His best friend. His brother. The only person he ever really trusted.

Pleasure clenched like pins and needles in his thighs, pulling him tight from taint to asshole, and he came with a low snarl in Bass’ mouth. Bass swallowed, sucking Miles clean, and then let his cock slid out from between swollen lips.

‘Fuck,’Bass muttered, wiping his mouth for the second time on his sleeve. 

‘Yeah,’ Miles said. His cock lay over his stomach, spit and spunk staining the designer suit he’d been meant to escort Charlie down the aisle in. ‘This’ll impress the Nevilles.’

Bass scratched his jaw, nails rasping through stubble. ‘That’s what I came to talk to you about actually.’

‘It’s a wedding,’ Miles growled, resentment at the reminder Bass wasn’t here for him making him bristle. He got up, hitching ruined trousers up his hips. ‘It isn't the police department’s business until we get to the brawls and the property department stage of the celebration.’

‘I’m not here as a cop,’ Bass said, stripping his hoodie off and tying it around his waist. ‘I’m here to tell you to keep Charlie away from my kid. Connor’s lost enough.’

Miles snorted. ‘Charlie’s not interested in your kid, she’s getting married to Jason Neville. This whole production was her idea, bringing the families together.’

‘And when you were twenty one,’ Bass said dryly, ‘you only made good decisions that benefited the family?’

Miles hesitated. When he’d been twenty one he’d tried to steal his brother’s wife, left her standing at the airport when he realised he couldn't do it, and ran away for ten years with his best friend. Charlie was smarter than that, though. She was  _ better  _ than that.

This time no one bothered to knock. Rachel flung the door open, pale and perfect in mother of the bride gold silk, and levelled accusing blue eyes on him.

‘We can't find her,’ she said. Fear had stripped the colour from her face, leaving the make-up stark against her skin. ‘We can't find Charlie anywhere.’

Aw, fuck.

  
  



End file.
